Quietness and Catholicism

Notes From: Muriel Spark's Symposium...

Quotation studies are my personal approach to book reviews. I pull out the lines I underlined while reading and use them as jumping-off points to explore what made a book stick with me. Sometimes there's a clear theme, other times I just follow where the quotes take me. But here's my rule: if I highlighted enough passages to fill one of these posts, the book earned at least 3 stars from me.

This Week: Symposium, Muriel Spark

I discovered this book on a whim in a charity shop, drawn by its title and premise that immediately reminded me of Plato's Symposium. The setup mirrors that classical dialogue, people gathered around a dinner table engaged in intense conversation — though don't expect profound philosophical debates here. Spark offers something more immediate: sharp, takeaway observations about human nature.

Set during a 1990s London dinner party that spectacularly implodes, the novel watches an elegant evening among the upper-middle class dissolve into chaos involving murder, blackmail, and the inevitable exposure of dark secrets. Spark uses this single evening as a scalpel, cutting away polished social facades to reveal the decay beneath.

This is undeniably a product of its era, saturated with talk of marriage, divorce, and inheritance—the particular anxieties of wealthy Londoners in that decade. The characters are largely awful people inflicting awfulness upon each other, yet Spark's sharp wit makes their cruelty genuinely entertaining. Her writing maintains that distinctive efficiency: crisp, economical prose that packs layers of observation into each sentence. It's the kind of book where you can appreciate the craftsmanship even when the story itself doesn't completely captivate.

I have chosen to quotes today. I didn’t highlight many in this novel. But these two could have been writing a whole newsletter on!

"It was her habit to let people speak on"

This observation about the character Hilda resonates deeply with me. I recognise myself in her approach to conversation. The deliberate choice to remain largely silent, interjecting only with brief responses and carefully placed questions that encourage others to continue talking.

There's something both generous and self-preserving in this conversational style. On one hand, it's a gift to others: creating space for people to express themselves, to feel heard, to work through their thoughts aloud. So many conversations are simply parallel monologues, with each participant waiting for their turn to speak rather than genuinely listening. Hilda's approach—and mine—offers something rarer: authentic attention.

Yet there's also an element of self-protection here. Talking exhausts me in a way that listening doesn't. Extended verbal expression feels like pouring out energy I can't easily replenish. By positioning myself as the listener rather than the speaker, I can engage meaningfully with others while conserving my own resources. It's not passive. Good listening requires active engagement, thoughtful questions, genuine curiosity—but it operates within my natural rhythms rather than against them.

Spark captures something profound about personality types in this simple observation. Some people energise themselves through talking; others find energy in listening. Neither approach is superior, but recognising the difference helps explain why certain social dynamics feel effortless while others drain us completely.]

"You should fear nothing if you're a catholic. Otherwise, what's the point of being a catholic?"

While I'm not Catholic myself, my partner is, and through him Catholic practices have woven themselves into my daily life. We pray before meals, attend Sunday Mass, observe the liturgical calendar. Initially foreign to me, these rituals have gradually revealed their psychological and spiritual benefits.

This quote captures something essential about faith's purpose: it should provide foundation, not just tradition. The character speaking here understands that Catholicism, or any genuine religious commitment, must offer something transformative. If faith doesn't address our deepest fears and anxieties, if it doesn't provide peace of mind and spiritual grounding, then what exactly is it accomplishing?

Through my religious studies education, philosophy degree and lived observation, I've seen how religion at its best creates both community and internal peace. The communal aspect, belonging to something larger than yourself, sharing rituals and beliefs with others, feeling supported by an extended spiritual family, addresses our fundamental need for connection. The personal relationship with Jesus, the sense of being known and loved unconditionally, speaks to our deepest longings for acceptance and purpose.

Of course, religion has its shadows — I'm not naive about the ways faith can be weaponised or distorted. But what I've witnessed in healthy Catholic practice is precisely what this quote suggests: a faith that diminishes fear rather than amplifying it, that creates peace rather than anxiety, that grounds people in something stable and loving.

The peace of mind that comes from this faith isn't naive optimism or denial of life's difficulties. It's more like having a secure base from which to face uncertainty. When you genuinely believe you're held by something larger and more loving than yourself, the everyday anxieties that plague most of us. About meaning, about death, about whether we matter.